I read Castaneda throughout my in between years, in my teen years where I woke to my Na’will and dreamt that juan-carlos floated through all the mundane-bits that we do … but he assisted me too, with death-awareness pattern-recognition; these trails left behind by Natures foxy-moves, ’til you could read its language, its omen-nomenclature, and not need to know what it meant, then take another breath while brother-death counted what was left…

artists are often autogamous, like jelly-fish, especially when they’re disturbing meaning in a rhythmic pulsation, exciting to fluorescence a deeply subtext’d verse; but don’t mistake their stinging strophe for arrogance, that’s just fierce presence, moved by waves of astonishment, cascading through their nervous and vascular system; they’re spontaneously overflowed ( sea through ) and while reaching with their iridescent tentacle, they’ll simply, elegantly, fluoresce a gleam in your eyes…

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What is ‘meaning’?¿

Poems are often a ɹoɹɹıɯ:mirror and they’re also reflections of the urge-to-merge — a eunoia-euphoria expressed in longing waves, swelling into words that’re intertextual-fugues.

In the phenomenology of Love coupled with the visceReality of joyousness which frissons up the spine, what remains is our own courage to change the world from inside out withoutta’ doubt; that lost Art of interior-design … it starts with wonder imbued in awe, unbound by the language of ‘reason’ nor by the fatal-skin we’re in, uncluttered with the pitter-patter of patterns promulgated by all of our bad education nor spoilt by the cliché of tribal-mediocrity!

What is meaning?¿we are the meaning-makers.

Sometimes the Poem is simply a prayer and sometimes the prayer, the plaint, is a diminutive echo of our deep calling to deep, from our slippery-sloped separation anxiety — sometimes its this ancient-ache from being separated by such large chasms of time-and-space matters, and sometimes, feeling this is all one can do, and this ‘this’ becomes a catabasis romance, and yet a duality dirge too, an elegy of woe, and a place of exceptional Peace, where the quantum frequencies of bliss are released…


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rainy days always make me sad…

On the far side of this torrentially rainy afternoon, my chest is heaving with a heart full of anxious discordant speech — I’m in afib — I feel the distant planets warp and weft in space, and this spinning world spinning out of place, while Solar events stimulate our gyrating geomagnetic sphere, I’m here, catching my breath and spinning too.
I feel these electric triggers of a planet gone askew — sometimes all I can do is let the frenzy of cacophony play out — while I bear down and lay for awhile on the ground.
It feels like hell though — having experienced abiding in those long rhythms of natural Peace, which I remember with a grin, it’s as if now I’m agitated in the fires of discordant Sin.
Nevertheless, I digress, I beseech, I reel, and then I faint from the pain in my chest; a pain with no upper limit, no crescendo, just a rising fugue with no hope of return — I can’t remember anything at all, then. Now.
I’m riding it out, using a few tricks, where ignorance is my friend and not knowing my special talent — I do this while writing, scratching out words, with these many strokes of my ink spilling pens — sitting in my studio, leaning over my desk, convalescing and trying not to think of what the future may bring.
However, and notwithstanding this constant reeling I feel, while falling down I yet wonder and look for a spot to drop — I hear a distant thunder, my eyes see sparkles like crystal dew, flashing shards of reflection, in this my room with a view…
All my blood is pooling, in my misfit heart, spiralling around and around, and I cannot feel my heart beat, my heart beat, where is the beat in my fuK’ng heart?
Anyways, I keep on and push the discomfort away, as if I have some say — my cardiologists give me drugs to escape the pain, the anguish, and espouse their killer strategy of murdering that part of my heart that reacts to my vagus nerves’ mysterious entreaties and tribulations — with its rapid rise and sudden fall, with each opposite beat cancelling the flow, with each beat lost to the veto of this foreign request, my heart yet persists, as if trying to make me whole.
Why would an errant signal from my vagus nerve make me feel like the sky is falling, beseech me to run and hide? Is this the boy who cried wolf? It’s as if my vagus nerve knows more than I, as if the world has lost its way, gone crazy, gone far astray, like a sheep in wolf’s clothing.
I cannot feel my pulse — I have no pulse — only a slushing surge — no beat, no rhythm, no tempo — like my poems — just noise. I listen to music now, half hoping that these natural rhythms, these jazz beats and blissful rising cannons can assuage the wild beast writhing within me.
My mind is calm, relaxed, measured; I’m not stressed — yet, by these egregious body signals, by my heart writhing wretched and disrupted, it tells me I’m in terror, waiting to die a horrible death, choking, trying to catch my breath.
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irreverent rhythm and rational arrhythmia

Ezra Pound averred that, “Rhythm is form cut into TIME, as a design is determined by SPACE.” or the temporal, therefore rhythmic, distribution of the elements of language — the texture of expectations, satisfactions, disappointments, surprisals, which the sequence of syllables brings about — the physiological link of rhythm to heart and lungs brings the reader into the Poem with that viscereality —


visceReality in the poem — vortex prayers ‘n fractal wishes, on the edge of an ancient-ache in time ‘n space matters — I’ve always loved the flowing stream through rock ‘n root making many whirl’ds — those vortices apparently whirl down to the atomic level thus stream-cleaning water of biological hazards — sometimes I write from the rhythm not knowing the words but using a sort of shorthand where phrasings are place-holders of syllables — as pointed out this often ends up illiterythmically inspired —


nevertheless, motion is what creates something from nothing; as Einstein mused when considering the beginning of the Multiverse, ” something moved ” — as such words are as ‘dynamos’ of rhythmic punctuation when musically driven by inspiration — this is why ‘thought’ is conjectured to be a sympathetic-motion in the brain from the confluence of sensing Nature all over again — the Poet writes from that serendiptous-connection having mastered the word-image-rhythms can therefore incite the emotives/feelings/thoughts in a reader where a synergy of the relationship of observer/observed becomes tesselated interactively


— I throw a rock in the stream and watch the ripples fill the unbounded cavity of your brain, where these ripples ripple all over again — so, she writes her insights with a lyrical pen that babbles like a brook of words that meander down the page while unfettered glistening ‘fish’ jump from line to line seeking the source of their urgent drive home — thus does poetry roam…

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Ponderings and merCurious illuMentations on Depression and Art

this creeping flesh
shall fade and fall as dust
from dust so made;
though carries in itself
the bloom of flower
the reach of tree,
the words a lover
once said
to me


I have seen many of my friends fall to the so called illness of depression. Many Artists of brilliance allured to the relinquishment of darkness. The once formidable and brilliant lost in the grey haze of nothingness. Why is there this flaw in us? I’ve looked into the dopamine and serotonin theories of creativity and brilliance. Many studies indicate a lack of these neurotransmitters or their inhibition as the crux of this Psychological flaw. There are practical Alchemies that have the affect of countering this plight, such as the Aromatherapy of Roses, the uplifting thrill of chocolate and the inspiration of imbibing a wholesome wine; all claiming to open brain centres and cascade the bliss’s of dopamine’s and serotonin pleasures. The mysteries of passion and the Tantra of realization go a long way to vilify the congresses of these neurotransmitters. Why even the Raptures of Enlightenment itself reflects this Brain Chemistry as a culmination of these chemically based biological bliss’s.

Nevertheless, it has come to my attention of late that darkness is necessary to light and I am confident that behind this is the key to further realizations. The Psychology of Alchemy always alludes to darkness as a precipitate to the process of turning lead into Gold. An allusion to our Brain Chemistry perhaps. That in the darkness of night, in those tortuous anguishes of solitude, there is a fermenting, a decaying of the unincorporated Self to that which is newly born. We become as an Egg. A death from whence comes a life; you must die before you die to rise in Light!

From the vestigial decay of our discarded and detached parts of our Psyche, from the retreat from outer life to the naked Soul searching within, there comes a breakthrough! These many separate parts of ourselves have somehow mutated into something newly Born. From the decay more biological Alchemies have transmuted into the needful neurotransmitters of dopamine and serotonin into the Light.

We all need to rest and recuperate and gather ourselves anew in caves wrapped in lament and cloaked in anguish and dive deep into that unknown to become who we are to become … but we spend too much time surviving out of tune with the Natural rhythms of integration and holistic reintegrations which can raise us into the Light body.
What if the darkness is my friend and not my enemy? What if the darkness is our need to go within instead of chasing glimmers and reflections outside of ourselves feeling incomplete and without? What if we just need to go within and surrender into our great void of not knowing to create ourselves anew, to be reborn from this darkness into light. What if the vast Darkness of Space is also the Mother of all of our Gods?

— the Heart is the basis for the quintessential transfiguration. The allusions of Alchemy hold many verities for those with eyes to see. This piece on depression is a whirlwind of views and ideas on the Darkness that invents the Light. In the Raga Yoga tradition they have demarcated 4 phases when moving through each one of the 33 Rings of Splendour of Sanskrit lineage. Upon entering one of the points is an elation, a bliss they call it which can last moments, days or years depending upon the Yogi. Ecstasy. After which there are two phases of depression. The agonizing phase which carries the anguishes and emergence of past painful impressions and the falling darknesses, the pit of despair. Then there is the dust and ashes phase which is the big grey nothing! The fog of emptiness. Either of these phases will have their alloted time. Then there is the breakthrough phase where one is vibrationally enraptured and the work continues to the next ring of splendour.

These are Maps and not the Territories. My views are from observation and like the Quantum Field Theory, the observer is always intimately connected to the experiment thus changing it. Which means that each of our experiences will vary.

The plot point of this piece is that the Darknesses is a relevant phase and you must find support for this phase shift in consciousness as the well may be infinitely deep.
The devil is in the details of your own wiring; merCurious lamentations in the Cathedral of satans synecdoche-bag of slippery tricks that is your mind.

However, these are theories born of Art and not advice in any way —

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?¿ intertextual-fugue ?¿

an ?¿ intertextual-fugue ?¿ is here –> <– my Literary Comic

What is an ?¿ intertextual-fugue ?¿

When we were children curious and free, we’d learn by mimicking what we see; sometimes it was frustrating and we’d jump and scream ’til we finally figured out what it really did mean; so maybe the planet and its people too, are in a cognitive-dissonance and just don’t know what to do; ’til they do, when they become heart-centred again, that’ll be the day for celebration then…

ComiX are ephemeral and topical, however, what comes around, goes around — we humans are on the brink of falling-fatal to a heartless machine, doing our ‘duty’ as an ordinary-drone has-been — or we can be rising-rapture’d in an organic-mutation within a few natural generations – then we’d speak in light’s language of shadow sculpting time, moving to a music which only the heart can hear, simply-sublime, risen from the slime, dancing without any fear.

So the point-of-view is the field of possibility. What would ‘objective’ Art look like? — ?¿Art-officially; it seems to me that there are two forms of Art. Objective Art and Subjective Art. Subjective Art comes in 3 flavours, generally, i.e., Intellectual, Emotional, and Physico/Instinctual. A quick example of each would be Picasso’s Instinctual works, the Expressionists emotive works, and the Intellectual forms of the so called minimalist Post-Modern Art. Of course there are various blending of these ‘subjective-types’ which speaks to each of us on the level of our personal character, our relative perspectives and, to paraphrase Nietzche, all of our bad-education; hence the like/dislike quality of subjective art works.

With Objective art, like the Gothic Cathedrals of old, the Pyramids, and music such as Beethoven’s 5th Symphony or Mozart’s 40th, 41st and 42nd symphonies, each and every one has a similar experience. Lifting us up, out of our personal time/space habit patterns; lifting us in awe to the greater nature of life, like wings of wonder flying through the vast cloud-of-unknowing that is this sentimental-reality. So it is that Nature reflected in Art, seems to move us beyond our tunnel-vision, while the subjective forms tend to chain us to our comfortable habits of seeing and hearing, or that they provide us a temporary diversion from our methodically-inauthentic machinations at best.

Poetry (and I agree that ComiX are a form of Poetic representation) often reflects these ‘small’ miracles in our everyday struggle. Like most Art, it is subjective and produces few Saints. Art as a Language can speak to us within but without any reason, and often sings of a Love that cannot be named, in a music that only the Heart can hear. However, it is like having a ‘Myth’ which is like having a ‘Map!’ The Artist can share these ‘stories’ of her ‘Map Quest’, her experiences, and somehow in the sharing, we the readers and perhaps the Artist herself, are renewed! Nevertheless, ?’knowing’ is like these Maps, but it’s really not the Territory, that cloud-of-unknowing we’re presently ‘wondering’ through…

In summary, tl:dr, ‘we don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are, and if we change the way we look at things, the things we look at change’ — and that’s what these Poets of possibility arouse in their Art. It’s why I read Poetry and Comix; or as Novalis averred, “We read Poetry (or ComiX) to heal the wounds that reason makes.”


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in a looking-glass that sees both ways

poems are a ɹoɹɹıɯ:mirror, a yes-I-can with crayons the colour of Tachyons rushing out of whirl’ds where past-meets-future, reaching for-words yet going back-words for some more

they make many reflections like a ripple, and yet you’re at zero-point too, from where the puddle tessellates to a past in the future you and you reflect it back-words and for-words for some more, ’til it reverberates just there, now and here, like an invertendo-innuendo that’s an in-your-face ɹoɹɹıɯ:mirror…

a mirror-Kah rackles with the spirit of the times — hmmmirror-reciprocate, and all that is recorded is written everywhere for anyone to see, and that’d be like a hit-list for revolutionary insurgencies and thus a powerful corollary of possible collapse scenarios concerning this empire, as the top one-percent are exacerbated into feeding the roots of alien alternative cycles … nonetheless, ‘I see you, you see me’ and maybe together we’re spied-upon in an irony of what it’s like not to be truely free, but carry-on in a more human invertendo-innuendo, in a more momento-mori story, and anywayZ mirroring each other more merrily…

another cycle of the Sun, rollin’ ’round the earth ‘yer on, then in cycles turned your way, yes, another day where cycles in the Sun are glimmerings dancing upon the Sea, making many reflections, and sympathetic tessellations vibrate in our oceanik-brain, where these orbits perigee, where we learn the lessons of leaving behind and faltering forward, where we would-if-I-could be the king who would be a man riding these cycles of the Sun by the Sea, going on this way, over and over again, mirrorly …

and we’d become these just-in-time poet-ninJa assassins, recycling those one-percenters who wannabe’ left alone with all of the crayons, reflecting the creme-de-la-creme in our extra hot latte, and with every word we’d missed the mark with, we’d feed the roots of further cycles than ever they bloomed before …SplashofColor

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